A Study in Grey
by patgabz
Summary: Angels that cry, interdimensional time and space machines, 900 year old aliens sporting bow ties... the British government requires the assistance of a non-too compliant consulting detective and doctor, and the whole while, Mrs. Hudson is still trying to convince the boys that she is just their landlady.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1:**

**A Conversation Starter Piece**

The boys were having yet another one of their little "domestics". Normally, this wouldn't phase Mrs. Hudson, since it usually meant she got some much needed peace and quiet around the flat while Sherlock sulked in his study and John stormed out and did whatever it was that he did… But this time, Sherlock's "coping" antics had surpassed obscene amounts of nicotine patches, hallucinogenic sugar ("Experiment in progress!" Sherlock would correct), and the occasional extra bullet holes in the walls (which she always swore she was going to tack onto their rent… one of these months…). Those, Mrs. Hudson could live with – but this?!

Her lips were a thin, chalky pink line of disdain as she bustled around the living room, picking up Sherlock's debris of emotional mismanagement. Crumpled scribbled out notes, an exorbitant amount of empty tea cups and half-eaten take out containers, piles of shriveled nicotine patches that had been kicked under the couch like an abandoned snake skin… Again, these things she could live with, as odd and unhygienic as they were. But this…

It stood in the corner of the room the whole time she cleaned, and if not for the fact that it had been chiseled into a form that covered its eyes, Mrs. Hudson probably would have been even more irate since then it would have felt as if it were watching her. Insult to injury avoided, so that was a small victory there. It was grey and plain, and …well… it was _ugly_, there was no other word to so succinctly describe it. She figured either Sherlock had gotten it to set John off (she could never tell if he started things intentionally or not, but regardless, he was the one to always start these sort of things between them), or this was his attempt at remedying the situation. Although why Sherlock would ever think that a hunk of stone junk would ever put him back into the good graces of the doctor was beyond Mrs. Hudson. Hence, she attributed its arrival in the flat to the former of the two options.

She thought about shucking it into the basement, but it looked too heavy to get down there by herself, and she didn't feel like paying someone to come move it for her. No, she'd much rather save that money for her scratch cards and cheap makeup. Instead, she pulled down some old holiday lights from the attic, shook out most of the dust, and strung it around the hulking thing and plugged it in. She stood back to admire her handiwork with a smug smile. Self-satisfaction was not something that came into Mrs. Hudson's life readily at 221B since the arrival of the consulting detective and his P.A., so she wasn't about to pass up the moment.

She plucked out a card from the dresser and scribbled a reminder note for the boys that she was not their housekeeper, and taped it to the back of the hands of the great winged statue. By the time she finished assessing the damage in the kitchen, her disapproval in Sherlock's furniture taste had all but evaporated to a small nagging sensation in the back of her mind, something that would easily be forgotten about completely once she headed upstairs for her routine nightcap and favorite telly program.

And forget is exactly what she did as she trudged up those stairs after doing more scrubbing and rubbish chucking in the kitchen than she deemed respectable for a woman of her age. So tired and irritable was she with Sherlock, that she never even remembered to unplug the holiday lights. Perhaps if she had – or perhaps if Sherlock could remember to run the dish wash every once in a while, or if he and John had never argued over who's turn it was to go have a row with the machine down at the market, or perhaps if Mrs. Hudson could just make good on her word that she was in fact _not _the boys' housekeeper – she would have possibly noticed that her passive aggressive note had fallen from the statue's hands, and landed neatly and innocently on top of the desk from which she had gotten the card paper from…which just happened to be on the clear other side of the room.

Perhaps _then _Mrs. Hudson would have realized that she was not as alone as she thought she was that night in 221 B, and perhaps everything that happened next would have turned out much much much differently.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

**Mycroft's Day Off**

A half stone.

Half. A bloody. _Stone._

Mycroft Holmes stepped off the scale, resisting the urge to kick it in a bout of childish frustration and disgust. He resumed his seat on the crisp butcher paper that covered the padded examination table while his doctor silently recorded his measurements into his file. "And you've been following the meal plan your dietitian drew up for you?" he asked after a moment, pausing in his writing to roll his wrist. Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes and nodded. "Religiously," he said a little too defensively. "And the exercise routine as well."

Dr. Bell continued to roll his wrist as he flipped back a few pages to check something in the file. He was a phenomenal doctor, and had been serving as Mycroft's personal physician for as long as he could remember. He was getting on in years though, as evidence by the wrist rolling (arthritis flaring up), the cane that hung on the back of the doorknob of the examination room, and the unmistakable increase in the thickness of his spectacles since the last time Mycroft had been in to see him.

"Honestly Mycroft, I don't think you've got anything to really worry about," Dr. Bell offered consolingly. "Considering the fact that it's been a few months since your last visit – and given the time of season – it's perfectly normal to gain a little around the middle for a bit. You're still healthy, everything's in working order, and your blood pressure is actually normal …for once…"

Mycroft scowled and resisted the urge to cross his arms defensively over his stomach. "Well, if that's all for today…"

"Have you tried, perhaps, buddy dieting with Sherlock?"

A nearly imperceptible tick worked the length of Mycroft's jaw and the paper beneath him crumpled as his hands clenched unconsciously on the edge of the table. "Shirley," he managed with a wry grin after a beat of tense silence, "seems to have inherited mother's _unfortunate _overly-active thyroid; dieting has never really been…an issue of concern for him." He grimaced, unable to disguise his contempt with Sherlock's miraculous metabolism, the reason that the man could go days without eating or sleeping and then binge on half-spoiled leftovers from Dr. Watson, and yet never gain more than a few ounces. As boys, Sherlock's slight frame earned him permanent favoritism with the school bullies, while Mycroft's slightly burlier build made him a shoe-in for rugby squads and distinguished him above and apart from his brother. Now as men, Sherlock was still as bony and smart-mouthed as ever, but Mycroft had gone soft and – as evidence by the new scale reading – _pudgy. _He would rather sell government secrets than admit it, but when it came to confronting his weight struggles, he was envious of his brother. Well, his indifference, to be more precise.

"I just thought," continued Dr. Bell, "that perhaps if you had someone motivating you along your journey – "

Mycroft scoffed. "'_Motivating'? _I'm sorry doctor, my brother is many things to me – 'motivating' does not happen to fall into his repertoire." He stood to shimmy back into his trousers and suit shirt, annoyed that he had cleared his calendar for this disappointing well visit as opposed to bunkering down for the day to finish sorting out a financial spat with French combative trading records. If Sherlock brought it up, he would chalk up the weight gain to stress over a recent handling of a covert information gathering ops in the Middle East.

"As per usual, excellent job Dr. Bell. Thank you." Mycroft procured a rather large wad of notes from his jacket pocket and pressed them into the old man's hand. He chuckled and pocketed the cash, shaking his head. "Honestly Mycroft, you don't have to bribe me – I'm sure you could just have someone look into his file if you're - "

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. "No no, I'm not going to bother checking in on Sherlock this time; last time Mother sent me to get a copy of his records, she nearly had a heart attack. I think it was right after the case with the Turkish mob boss…"

Dr. Bell nodded sympathetically. "Oh yes, he was rather done in after that one. I remember: 3 cracked ribs, whole right hand smashed up, sprained ankle, broken collar bone, and I lost count of how many stitches…You know, there _are _easier and much more-" he patted his breast pocket where he had put the bills " -inexpensive ways to check in on your brother, Mycroft."

Mycroft pretended to be extra intent on the alignment of his coat buttons. _And this is why I have a therapist. _"It's just not the Holmes' way," he replied dryly. "But there's a specialist in Geneva I can put you in touch with who could help you with that hand. He's top of the field for replacement joint treatments."

Dr. Bell smiled and rotated his wrist absentmindedly. "Probably about time I got the damned thing looked at; it's slowing down my work. Never really had a problem with it before, but recently…" He trailed off, sighing wearily. "But thank you, Mycroft. Just go ahead and email the details for this Geneva contact of yours to my secretary."

"Certaintly."

He left the office quickly after that, trying to avoid being awkwardly chatted up by the doctor's matronly receptionist. It was sleeting, and even his umbrella and upturned collar Armani trenchcoat weren't enough to keep dry. He didn't usually like troubling the drivers in inconvenient weather if he could help it, but he really did need to get a move on that business with France… His thickly gloved hands fumbled in the depths of his pocket for his phone, which he had silenced prior to his meeting with Dr. Bell. Unsurprisingly, there were at least 20 missed alerts. Half of them were just calls from Mother, a few emails from a contact in Parliament regarding impending legislature, a text from Dr. Watson requesting permission to lobotomize his brother ("Don't worry," it read "Will not use anesthesia."), and a single text from Sherlock:

_Calling in a favor – come at once._

_SH_

Mycroft sighed irritably as the familiar black car sloshed up alongside the curb. A tall, thin, extremely red-haired young woman wearing a parka inspired Burberry came around from the other side to open the door for him, and to hand him off a Styrofoam cup of tea. "Peppermint," she said in a crisp Scottish accent. "Plain." The heat felt pleasant as it thawed through Mycroft's weather stiffened gloves, and he waited a good long while for the warmth to reach his fingers while he sat in silence with the new P.A. Looking out the window, he realized the driver was headed towards the Diogenes Club. "Sorry, not today," he called to up front. "Need to stop off at Baker Street."

"221B?" inquired the driver, and with a start, Mycroft realized that he was new too. Young, like the P.A., but he looked nervous and terribly …well… _inexperienced_; he practically radiated anxiety. _Must be the holiday staffers,_ Mycroft rationalized. "I need to stop in on the little brother," he explained. "Shouldn't take long, but I'll go ahead and call another car when I'm done."

Mycroft passed the untouched tea back to the P.A. as they pulled up alongside the curb in front of Speedy's. He pulled out another wad of notes from his breast pocket. "Here," he said, splitting it between the girl and the driver. "Happy Holidays."

He turned up his collar again before hurrying up the steps of 221B, where a small notecard was plastered to the door from the sleet. _John_, it read, in an all-too familiar scribble, _heat is out. Don't worry – the Queen is coming to visit. SH._

Mycroft was seething as Mrs. Hudson ushered him into the foyer, going on about her hip and blathering away while she took his coat. "…probably just the weather, but the blasted thing has been creaky as hell. I was worried I was going to have to spend Christmas in bed this year! Luckily, Sherlock still had some of that, uhm, herbal remedy lying around…He's upstairs waiting for you, by the way. Got a case in the works or something or other – client wearing the most peculiar get up chatting with him now. I suppose you're here to help him? Him and John are still fighting, so I don't suppose he'll be on for tea…but I'll go ahead and get a pot on for you three. It's too chilly otherwise – damn heat is out. Go on up, I'll bring it in a bit." Mycroft started the climb up the second flight and was in the process of granting Dr. Watson a textual blessing of consent for that lobotomy when Mrs. Hudson called up, "Oh, and mind the angel! Those boys and their jokes…"

Mycroft looked up from his screen, expecting some kind of tacky cupidesque décor, but the only thing on the landing was a pile of flickering Christmas lights. He shook his head sadly as he knocked on the door to the flat, making a mental note to recommend Dr. Bell to Mrs. Hudson; the strain of boarding Sherlock was obviously proving too much for her health.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

**The Client**

At best, it was an interrogation. At worst, it was an awkward tea party between himself, the client, and Mycroft.

The aforementioned elder brother sat rigidly in one of the study's numerous cushioned chairs, a saucer and cup perched on his knee precariously – his mind was elsewhere. Two untouched biscotti slices stacked on the edge of the plate – still as weight conscious as ever. His left hand was attempting to appear relaxed on the chair arm, but it kept tapping out an agitated rhythm – he didn't want to be here, but really, when _did _Mycroft ever enjoy spending time with his little brother?

Sherlock sighed wearily and rubbed his arms while the client noshed away at the biscotti, and noisily knocked backed two cups of tea. He had run out of nicotine patches ages ago, and he feared he was developing some kind of phantom itch of withdrawal. John usually would have run out to get him some more, but since they were fighting… Instead, he had to settle for bribing Mrs. Hudson, who had a tendency of using his money to get scratch cards instead. She'd never admit it though, but the scraps of foil stuck beneath her nails were louder evidence than her lies.

"So," he finally said, breaking the ever-increasing awkwardness of the silence. "My client here is in need of assistance."

Mycroft scoffed. "Well, why else would he be here?" Sherlock resisted the urge to shoot his brother an ugly look. "Forgive me, I should have been more specific – my client here is in need of _your _assistance."

"And what assistance could I possibly offer that the Great Sherlock Holmes could not?" A small smirk was playing at the corner of Mycroft's lips, and Sherlock knew he was reveling in the realization that his baby brother had to call in this favor. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock attempted to remain calm as he went over to the desk to pick up a ziplock bag filled with some things. He tossed it to Mycroft, who caught it rather haphazardly and began examining it like it might possibly be a bomb that could go off at any second.

"It's what was in his pockets," Sherlock explained, jerking his head in the direction of the client. "A stale biscuit, a tattered and very outdated travel guide of London, broken pocket watch, ripped bow tie, and a napkin with a Chanel red lipstick print, shade name 'Ferrari', if I'm not mistaken… "

"So you're dealing with a drunkard suffering temporary amnesia," Mycroft deducted rather dryly. He set the bag down on the coffee table beside him and folded his hands in his lap as he leveled a cold stare with Sherlock. "You called me down here. On my day off. To call in a favor. With helping a drunk."

"I'm not a drunk!" piped up the client indignantly. He lost his hold on his saucer, and a bit of unfinished biscotti toppled off onto the floor. "Well….at least I don't _think _I am…" He stared down miserably at the crumbs, and seemed to sort of fold in on himself, like a house of cards imploding. Sherlock realized that if John were there, this would have been the part where he'd offer up some kind of sympathetic line – human emotional services, Sherlock had dubbed them. But John was not here, and he himself was not necessarily wired for doling out such condolences.

"Well, regardless of the man's sobriety," Mycroft prattled on, "I still fail to see why you need me here. You easily could have ransacked missing persons files without my help, and even if that was too _daunting_ of a technical task for you to grasp, you could have at least gotten Lestrade to do your dirty work."

Sherlock ignored the jibe at his lack of "common sense" skills – as John called them – and pretended to wipe something off the hem of his coat. "When you're done taking out your frustrations about your futile doctor's visit on me, please, let me know." Mycroft's hand clenched on the chair, and for a fleeting moment, Sherlock was reminded of the times when they were children and he would get pummeled for running his mouth.

The client, seeming painfully aware of the tension between the two brothers, set his saucer down on the table and cleared his throat awkwardly. "Listen, if this is a bad time," he began, standing as if to leave, "I can always just – "

"No you can't." Sherlock cut across tersely. "You've got no money, no connections, and you haven't even got a proper coat." The client blinked in surprise and stared down at his worn, tweed jacket, as if he were just realizing he was dressed for early fall as opposed to the dead of winter.

"So did you just call me in to borrow some money for him?" Mycroft asked, his irritation apparent. Sherlock shook his head. "'Course not. I can do charity work and tax write offs on my own, thank you very much." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rumpled sheet of paper. "No, I called you here because I also happened to find _this _on my client here." As the paper passed from his hands to his brother's, Mycroft's look of agitation evaporated. For a moment, one could almost see a flicker of fear in the elder Holmes's eyes as he scanned the document, but it was quickly replaced by a cold mask of indifference and clinical efficiency. He turned to the client and held up the piece of paper. "Where did you get this."

It wasn't a question – it was a demand. The client flinched, and sunk lower into the padding of the chair. "I-I-I had it in my pocket. I thought it must've been something I just picked up or something…."

"This isn't something you just _pick up_," spat Mycroft. He suddenly rounded on Sherlock. "You want to explain to me why the hell your client has a copy of my case file dealings with North Korea?!"

Sherlock chuckled. "Because obviously, this man is in need of the help of both my astounding intellect, _and _the help of the British government." He reached over and snatched the paper from Mycroft's hand. "And you, dear brother, happen to fit rather relatively well into the latter category." He began to shred the document, and Mycroft let out a noise similar to that of a strangled cat.

"Relax," younger Holmes assured, scattering the confetti pieces into the bottom of the nearby bin. "It was just a copy. Merely a way of flagging down your attention. The real file is still safe and sound and happily uncompromised beneath your mattress, no doubt." Sherlock smirked as his brother made that strange noise again in protest. "You really should come up with some more original hiding places, Mycroft. You make it almost too easy."

"So you're saying," cut in the client, "that the sole reason I had top notch confidential, security of the State information collecting lint in my pocket was so that I could get your _attention?"_

Sherlock shook his head and steepled his fingers as he explained. "You told me when you first arrived that you had been directed to me by Inspector Lestrade down at the station. However, you could not recall who had directed you to Lestrade. Obviously, that someone had knowledge of my connection to him, and knowledge of the fact that Lestrade would be too swamped with holiday work to bother with an apparent drunkard. But this someone also needed you to acquire Mycroft's involvement, which is why I speculate they put that document copy into your pocket before they sent you on your merry way. So no, you did not have that file – nor were you dispatched to me by Lestrade – so that _you _could get our attention, but rather so that your keeper could."

The client's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "My…keeper?"

Mycroft sighed in a mix of frustration and realization as he held up the ziplock bag. "He's talking about the woman."

So you noticed it too?" Sherlock grinned. "The lipstick stain is fresh," he added for the benefit of the bewildered man. "Whoever sent you to Lestrade knew what they were doing."

While Sherlock beamed with the afterglow of yet another successful deduction, and while Mycroft simmered in suspicion and anxiety, the client buried his face in his hands and shook his head. "None of this makes any sense..." he muttered miserably.

"On the contrary, it makes perfect sense," Sherlock replied defensively. Mycroft rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone from his pocket. "I'm going to call my cab and head back to the office," he said. "I need to do a security sweep, just to be certain, and I'll see what I can do in regards to finding out who this keeper woman is."

"And what am I supposed to do?!" the client asked forlornly. "Wait here for you?"

A smug smile worked Mycroft's features. "Dr. Watson won't be returning tonight, so feel free to take up his bedroom for temporary accommodations. Sherly won't mind."

Collateral damage, most likely for the comment about the doctor's visit… Sherlock just sat and sulked. "Second bedroom upstairs on the left." he told the client.

"So that's it?" he asked incredulously. "I get free room and board for a night, your brother runs off to check his mattress regarding the security of the nation, and you…"

Sherlock tapped his temple and grinned. "I _think_."

The client shook his head and laughed. "You two are mental. Honestly, I think if I had gone to anyone else, I would have just been locked up."

Sherlock shrugged as Mycroft chuckled and started putting back on his many layers of sweaters and coats. "It's not the Holmes way," he said simply. "Although we will have to do something about what to call you…"

"You mean the man doesn't even have a bloody name?!" Mycroft paused, one arm still needing to be put into his jacket.

"I don't remember it, and I didn't have any ID in my pockets to offer any suggestions," the client explained. Sherlock waved an impatient hand, as if these were just minor details. "We'll just call him John."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose somewhere into the stratosphere of his hairline. "As in 'Smith'," Sherlock hastiliy amended, fighting back a flush of embarrassment. "'John Smith'."

"What about 'Allonso'?" offered the client.

Mycroft shook his head with a smirk. "Oh no, trust me – 'John' will suit you much better."

Sometimes, Sherlock truly hated his brother.


End file.
